“The legs--that is, three of them--are Chippendale. The back is a nondescript of something--I cannot tell. Perhaps from some colonial remnant.” “Vot's it vorth?” “Nothing, except to sit upon.” Otto laughed--a gurgling, chuckling laugh, his pudgy nose wrinkling like a rabbit's. “Ain't dot funny!” and he rubbed his fat hands. “Dot's true. Yes, I make it myselluf--and five oders, vich vas sold out of a lot of olt furniture. I got two German men down-stairs puttin' in new legs and new backs; dey can do anyting. Nobody but you find dot out. I guess you know 'bout dot china--I must look into dot. Maybe some mens on Fifth Avenue buy dot china--dey never come in here because dey tink dey find only olt furniture. And now about dot dressing-case. Don't you sell it. I find somebody pay more as I can give, and you pay me for my trouble. I lend you tventy--yes, I lend tventy-five dollars on it. Vill dot be enough?” “That will be enough for a week, after I pay what I owe.” “Vell, den, ven dot is gone ve tink out someting else, don't ve? I look it all over last night. It is all right--no breaks anyvere. And dot tventy-five only last you a veek! Vy is dot? Vot board do you pay?” His interest in the visitor was increasing. “Eight dollars with my meals, whenever my landlady is on time.” “Eight dollars! Dot voman's robbin' you. Eight dollars! She is a skin!” “It was the best I could do,” he replied simply. “Vot does she give you?” “A small bedroom, my coffee in the morning, and my dinner--both served in my room on a tray.” “Yes, I see; dot's it. She charge about tree dollars for de tray. I find you someting better as dot. Kitty Cleary has a room--you don't know Kitty? Vell, you ought to begin right avay. Dot's vun voman you don't ever see again. She vas in here last night, after you left, looking for her man Mike. She take you for five dollars a veek, maybe, and you get good tings to eat and you get Kitty besides, and dot is vorth more as ten dollars. She lives across de street--you can see one of her vagons--dot big vite horse is hers, and she love dot horse as much as she love her husband John and her boy Bobby, all but dot fool dog of Bobby's, she don't love him. You go over dere and tell her I sent you.” The stranger had relighted his pipe, and was watching the dealer clutching nervously at his spectacles, pushing them far up on his forehead, only to readjust them again on his nose. He had begun to detect behind the fat, round face of the thrifty shopkeeper a certain kindly quality. “And who may this remarkable lady be, this Mrs. Cleary?” he inquired.